


The Hunger, the Embers, and the Wolf

by daphnerunning



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Absurd Age Differences, Anal Sex, Canonical Character Death, Huan Is A Good Dog, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Non-Traditional Relationships, Oral Sex, Power Imbalance, Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Vala/Elf Relationship, Very brief Tilion/Celegorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28853772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Tyelkormo runs, hungry, to the sound of drums. He is a hunter, the fiercest, the swiftest--but tonight, he is the prey.Tonight, he is to be Found.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë/Oromë
Comments: 29
Kudos: 34
Collections: 2021 My Slashy Valentine





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harp_of_Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harp_of_Gold/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy MSV, Harp_of_Gold! I hope you like this fic as much as I liked writing it. I've never written this ship before, but the second I started thinking about it...it turned out I had a lot to say!

The first new sensation was the hunger.

Riding in Oromë’s train was not what anyone thought, back in Tirion upon Túna. Tyelkormo had once thought the same as they. Well he remembered standing with his older brothers, Maitimo and Makalaurë pointing out the different parts of the parade, describing it, until finally Maitimo had relented and allowed Tyelkormo to ride on his shoulders. Nelyafinwë was tall even then, not quite at his majority, but with a strength and promise to his body and spirit that made heads turn in the streets.

When he was on Maitimo’s shoulders, all heads turned to _him_ instead. Tyelkormo thought that was better.

They had watched the procession, and Maitimo knew everything, as usual. Tyelkormo had asked, “Have you ever ridden to the hunt, Russandol?”

Maitimo’s eyes had gone faraway, his hands stilled on Tyelkormo’s shins for balance. “Once,” he had answered, and refused to say any more.

Tyelkormo would have bothered him for more until he got it, but then the blast of hunting horns went up, along with a great baying of hounds and neighing of horses. “What are they saying?” he’d demanded, eyes alight, gripping his brother’s fine red hair with little concern for his comfort.

“Ow, you feral little brat--how should I know what birds and beasts have to say?”

“It means the Great Hunter has come,” Makalaurë said pleasantly, and waved with the rest of the audience. Those in front of them moved respectfully to the side--they were High Princes, after all--and Tyelkormo saw Oromë for the first time.

He was taller even than Maitimo, and powerful, but still essentially elf-shaped. His hair was white streaked and spotted with brown like the pelt of some great creature, and bound in a thicker braid than Tyelkormo had ever seen, with little of the delicacy his brothers and parents used to bind their hair, that had always seemed such a silly waste of time to him. Oromë wore his robes parted, his sleeves struck off, and Tyelkormo thought at first there was something amiss with his skin. It was mottled with green, twisting and winding in sinuous curls and patterns, the leaves and branches of the designs disappearing beneath his leather jerkin.

He wore antlers, or perhaps _had_ antlers. They were magnificent, spiking up through his two-toned hair, and the only thing that could have drawn Tyelkormo’s eyes down was the light in the Vala’s eyes. They burned, different from the way his father’s always did, with less of light and more of heat. The procession nodded to the Princes of the House of Fëanáro as they passed, and Oromë’s great burning eyes found his, just for a heartbeat.

“Turko,” Maitimo said, in a tone so patient it foretold Tyelkormo being thrown into a stream later, “little _néri_ who pull their brother’s hair don’t get to stay on his shoulders for long.”

Tyelkormo ignored him. Nothing was more important than watching the Procession of the Hunt, riding out to survey the woods, ensuring that they were free of Darkness.

“The Great Hunter leads our people’s fiercest to battle,” Makalaurë said, as the procession finally moved past them, continuing down the diamond dust streets, headed towards the woods. They looked strange, wedged between buildings and set against stone, as though they would blend seamlessly with the woods themselves. Tyelkormo felt the same way, stifled and confused in cities, itching and eager to run free in the woods, where no mother would catch him and drag a comb through his hair.

“They say his favorites are blessed with swiftness and power,” Makalaurë continued, and there was a spark of something wild in his eyes that Tyelkormo usually thought had missed him. He saw it often in Maitimo, always in his father and mother, but Makalaurë was one of them, too, even if he usually wore long robes and carried a harp.If there was to be a taut string, Tyelkormo preferred it to be upon a bow. He could string one, now, and had received one for his last Begetting Day.

“How do you become the Great Hunter’s favorite?” he asked, staring after the procession as they picked up speed, following in the wake of the Great Hunter’s antlers, moving towards the forests with the swiftness of fell beasts indeed. There were Eldar and Maiar alike in the procession, a dozen or two with glittering spears and full quivers, many of them wearing their hair the same way as Oromë, many of them with faces smeared with colored mud or paste of some sort, all moving with a lithe, easy grace.

He felt his brother’s head turn, as Maitimo and Makalurë exchanged a glance. “That’s some time in the future yet,” Maitimo said, and turned away from the emptying street, letting him scramble off his brother’s lanky shoulders. “Don’t worry, Turko. You’re a fair shot already. By the time you’re old enough--“

“I want to go to the hunt now!”

His brothers laughed, and true to Maitimo's threats, dunked him in a pond on their way home.

~

Now, he understood what it was to run with the hunt.

It was not like hunting with Curvo, the two of them moving almost as one, his perfect, faithful little companion in everything. It was not like hunting with Makalaurë and Maitimo, who were dogged in their pursuit of prey, but enjoyed the traveling more, often inviting their elder cousins Findekáno, Turukáno, and Findaráto along with them for songs and picnics. Tyelkormo always found himself frustrated on those trips, and they soon tired of his urging to go _faster_ , to be more serious, to pay attention to the tracks and the trail instead of the pleasures of the day.

He was barely in his majority the first time Poldolúva the Maia found him trussing his kill for the day by a stream, the massive elk coming apart easily under his knife. He had two fine dogs with him, hunting beasts his mother had given him a decade earlier, and they helped make short work of the offal. Blood and grime smeared his hands, but his grip was sure on the knife as movement in the woods made him still, and look up. “Who’s there?”

The Maia was of a height with himself, with a glow in his eyes and feet that hardly seemed to touch the ground, except when he willed them to do so. He wore his hair in the single thick plait Tyelkormo had seen on the rest of Oromë’s train many times, and had started to adopt himself--for practical reasons, of course--when his mother or older brothers could not catch him and make him “presentable.” His hair was a shimmering forest green, his clothes the supple leathers Tyelkormo had often envied, parted at the chest, short in the sleeve, with just a tunic over deerskin breeches. “It’s a fine kill,” he said, and nodded to the elk.

Tyelkormo jerked his chin in thanks. “I was planning to take it home, but if you are hungry, I’ll make a fire. You are welcome to my hospitality.” As if the woods belonged to him.

“I am always hungry,” said the Maia, and smiled. “But you should take the prize home. And after Laurelin has faded to Telperion’s glow thrice more, you should meet me here again.”

One fair eyebrow rose. “Why?”

“Because you may also wish to be always hungry.”

With that, the Maia (for he could be no other) left him, feeling oddly flushed and eager, to finish trussing his kill.

Three Minglings later, he returned, long before gold turned to silver, wearing his own loose tunic and breeches, with bow and knives on his back and spear in hand. Curvo had begged to come with him, but Tyelkormo had refused. This first time, he promised, he would go alone, and make sure it was truly fun before bringing his little brother. Curvo had subsided with bad grace, but relaxed when he heard that it would be a secret for just them, for Tyelkormo would not even tell their parents or brothers.

He paced, climbed a tree to see if he could spot anyone coming, paced more, dangled from a branch, and eventually started whittling a branch into a little whistle for Moryo. By the time the light was mingling, he could hardly sit still, twitching and jumping every time the slightest sound rippled through the forest.

Still, he was startled when the Maia appeared to him, silent as before, and crooked a finger. “I am called Poldolúva,” he said, and gestured at a massive recurved bow on his back by way of demonstration. “That is the name I bear during the Hunt. You will have your own, if you come with me.”

“Yes,” Tyelkormo said immediately, and slung his own bow over his shoulder. Poldolúva turned away, and Tyelkormo followed swiftly, feeling his limbs light and eager.

Oromë’s train was in a clearing not far from them. There was far more paint than he remembered seeing in the procession when he was young. Many of the Eldar and Maia in the train were hardly clothed at all, and Tyelkormo’s first thought was that they looked more like beasts themselves than beings of learning and wisdom.

Movement flickered, and suddenly Tyelkormo was face to face with Oromë himself, the Great Hunter, renown for his terrible wrath. He stood next to the mighty steed Nahar, whom all Noldorin children knew from afar, who glittered like silver during Telperion’s flowering, but shone bright white under Laurelin’s majesty. He was silver now, and the gold of his shoes that was so vibrant in the streets of Tirion were muted upon the grass of the forest.

The Vala stood in front of him, and tilted up his chin. Tyelkormo sucked in a breath, and tried to straighten up to his full height, meeting the Vala’s eyes, unafraid. His father could never hear that he had quailed in any way before any of the Valar.

The feeling of meeting those eyes was no less intense, for all that he was grown now and no child sitting on his brother’s shoulders. Oromë seemed to look into him, _through_ him, and Tyelkormo suddenly felt very young indeed. But he looked back, setting his jaw. If Oromë wanted him to flinch, he would have to strike him.

The Great Hunter’s fingers dropped from his jawline. They had been warm; he was cold now where they had touched, and wanted them back on his skin. “Have you a mount?” the Vala asked.

Tyelkormo shook his head. “I didn’t know I should bring one.”

Oromë flicked an irritated glance over at Poldolúva, who spread his hands in apology.

“My apologies, my lord. It has been long since I invited one on your behalf.”

Oromë gave Tyelkormo another searching look, then turned back to Nahar. “Give him your horse, then, and run.”

“My lord?”

Oromë swung into the saddle, ignoring any further protests. “Now!”

Despite his initial hesitation, Poldolúva gestured Tyelkormo forward, thrusting the reins of a restive blue roan into his hands. “Do you ride?” the Maia asked, eyes concerned.

Tyelkormo scoffed, insulted, and swung up into the saddle as if he’d been born in one. He would have spoken sharply, but Oromë blew his great horn Valaróma, and Nahar leapt forward, and Tyelkormo’s new mount thundered forth under the banner of the Great Hunter for the first time.

For a moment, he was certain Poldolúva would not be able to keep up. But the Maia lengthened his strides, and Tyelkormo noted that there were several among the party who were running on foot, as swift as deer, surefooted as goats, with spear or bow in their hands and something lean in their eyes.

The horse he had borrowed was magnificent, with rippling black mane and tail, streaming as they loped through the woods in Nahar’s wake. Oromë rode at the front, a vision of wild power, and Tyelkormo heard himself laugh at the sight, digging his heels into the horse’s sides.

 _Carlintë_ , came a voice, suddenly in his mind.

Tyelkormo swallowed hard, and forced his hands not to tighten on the reins. “Thank you,” he said, his heart thudding from the sudden press of a mind against his own. “Carlintë, thank you for bearing me.”

 _Do not eat me_ , the horse informed him, and neighed, kicking her heels--it was a mare, he knew that suddenly--in a half-buck that spoke of freedom rather than of trying to shake him off. He rode it easily, and turned his excitement back to the hunt. Never had he traveled so swiftly in a pack. Even by himself, urging his stallion Polissë as fast as they could travel as a pair, he had never run quite like _this_. Yavanna’s trees blurred, and the other hunters let out whoops and shouts, calls of excitement and trilling songs of joy as they crushed the grass and forest floor beneath feet and hooves.

Then something changed in the air.

Tyelkormo smelled it, and let out a cry, his head whipping to the side. “Lord Oromë!” he called, never thinking that he was too new, too unpracticed in the hunt, too young to call out to even such a one as the Great Hunter. “A boar! And it--“

“Is corrupted,” Oromë finished for him, and his eyes suddenly blazed with a fire so intense Tyelkormo’s breath stuttered, freezing in his lungs. Carlintë shivered beneath him, not unaffected by Oromë’s change of mood.

Then Oromë wheeled Nahar around, and set off at a gallop so swift it put their lope to shame. Tyelkormo was certain he would not be able to keep up, that all of them would fall behind and be lost to the woods. But Oromë drew them after him, in his train as if they were riding upon his cloak itself, lending them speed, strength, stamina. Tyelkormo found himself shouting with joy at the feeling.

And then the hunger took him.

The eager glee he’d felt at feeling himself surge with power twisted suddenly, and he gasped. All around him, he saw elves and Maiar changing, their eyes growing brighter, their limbs lean and long, their faces set in grim eagerness. He wanted, he wanted, he _wanted_ , and the hunger was everything, and he _was_ hunger, a predator, and could not be dissuaded from his prey.

 _Do not eat me_ , Calintë warned him again, and he knew why. Even the mare smelled like prey, but his mind was strong, and not easily bent to the will of another.

Leaves streaked past. Tyelkormo crashed through thickets and over streams, heedless of scratches and blows from branches, breezes, from turning too quickly and scraping against rocks. There was pleasure in the hunger, as he found the boar’s scent, dropped his reins, and pulled his bow from his back, nocking an arrow. “Heed me, Calintë,” he breathed, finding a rhythm with the mare’s strides, canting his hips to keep his upper body still.

The boar was huge and covered in stiff bristles and thick hide. Tyelkormo had seen his brothers bring one down, just once, and it had taken Makalaurë and Findekáno working together to keep it distracted and wounded before Maitimo could drive a spear through its eye. Tyelkormo remembered how the beast’s thick hide had repelled all but their most powerful shots, and sucked in a breath now. He spared a glance--just a glance, just for a heartbeat--for Lord Oromë, and the thick braid streaming behind his antlers.

“Lord Oromë, to whom all foul things are prey,” he cried, and aimed. “In your name, I send this shaft to strike down that which should not be in Aman!”

He loosed, and his arrow flew true. He knew it, even as he drew another, and another, and peppered the boar’s hide. Each one struck true, sticking and quivering in the thick flesh, but none brought the creature down. Oromë himself drew his great bow, and launched an arrow so thick it could have passed for a walking stick.

Red fire flared in the boar’s eyes, and it let out an eerie, howling noise as the rest of the hunt--when had they dropped behind? Was it really just Tyelkormo and Oromë?--came over the ridge, with bows and spears.

The shadows started to twist and writhe beneath the creature, and it turned, bellowing its rage, making straight for Lord Oromë and Nahar with its tusks set to front.

“I’m not eating you,” Tyelkormo said hastily, and before he could think what he was doing, pulled his feet out of the stirrups, drew his spear, and launched himself off of Calintë’s back, letting out a war cry as he leapt towards the creature.

Something hit him in the side, just as he hit the boar. He heard Oromë shout something, and quivered at the sound, but none of that mattered. His spear had struck true, driven home by all the power of his great jump, and the creature was impaled upon it, thrashing.

Something wet ran down his leg, from his side where something had hit him. No matter. Tyelkormo slapped at the sweat dripping, and looked up at Oromë on his steed, then bowed. “My lord. I offer you the beast’s life to end.”

For it was still squealing, making pathetic, urgent little sounds, even as the red fires started to fade from its eyes.

He was not expecting Oromë to look quite so angry. Something itched at his side, some stinging bite from a bug perhaps, or where he’d crashed against a rock. It was annoying, and becoming more so, but he ignored it.

Oromë swung down from Nahar, and drove one booted foot through the boar’s skull. He did not pause to check that it was dead, but grabbed Tyelkormo by the jaw, his eyes blazing with fury. Tyelkormo sagged in his hold, terrified despite himself at the wrath of the Vala. “M-my lord? What have I done wrong? Was it not for me to slay the beast? I’m sorry, I only wanted--“

“Stupid child,” Oromë snarled, and lifted him as easily as Tyelkormo would have lifted Moryo, who could not yet walk. His body stretched with the motion, and suddenly, he saw the shaft stuck into his own side, a slender Elven arrow buried between two of his ribs.

That would be what kept bothering him when he tried to breathe, he supposed in a vague, detached way. And what had hit him. And what kept stinging and aching. And where all the wetness down his side was coming from.

“You knew arrows were flying, did you not _think_?” Oromë thundered. “You are so desperate for a kill that you put your life in danger?”

“N-no, my lord--“

But he had been. Full of that bestial hunger that ached at him even now, he had been, and would have done it again even if he’d known the reward was another shaft stuck into his body.

“Laimastad!” Oromë shouted, and Tyelkormo trembled from the force of that call.

A figure hurried forward, clad in the same hunter’s raiment that all of them seemed to wear. “I’ll care for him, my lord,” said the elf, and Tyelkormo thought it might be a _nís_ , rather than a _nér_.

“I’m fine,” he protested, when Oromë released him at last, and the elf Laimastad attempted to touch him. “I can still ride!”

Oromë paused, about to turn back to Nahar, and his wrath was terrible as he turned to face Tyelkormo. “You defy me?”

Tyelkormo swallowed, hard. “I would not be parted from you. From the hunt.” _Not when I have waited so long._

Oromë regarded him, as if deciding whether to cull a runty piglet. Tyelkormo did his best to stand upright and look as if he were from the most noble house on Valinor, and not the feral brat his brothers often called him.

Whatever Oromë saw, in his bearing or his face, made his gaze flicker for a moment. “Laimastad. Remove the shaft and treat the wound. And you--you will make amends.”

“I don’t have to go home?” Tyelkormo demanded, wanting to be _certain_ he was hearing correctly.

“You try my patience.”

“But I don’t have to go home?”

Tyelkormo grunted as the elf Laimastad pulled the arrow free, and swiftly bound up his side. It hurt. He gritted his teeth, but refused to show any weakness, not wanting to be sent home like a recalcitrant child. Laimastad worked quickly at least, and soon Tyelkormo was pulling his spear free of the boar’s corpse, looking eagerly up at Oromë once more. “You wish me to apologize?”

“Not to me.” Oromë looked calmer, somewhat. There was still a horrible aura about him, as though he could choose the time of demise for any present. “Who,” he thundered, looking up at the assembled hunters, “fired the shaft that struck Tyelkormo Fëanárion?”

 _He knows my name_ , Tyelkormo thought giddily.

“I, my lord,” called another _nís_ , a lovely elf with deep brown skin and shells threaded into her braids. “The fletching is mine, I would know it anywhere.”

Oromë regarded Tyelkormo gravely. “You would have made a murderer of Muinehtë. Give her your obeisance.”

Tyelkormo stared up at him, uncomprehending for a long moment.

But the Great Hunter’s will pressed on him, and as much as he wanted to protest, he found he wanted more to serve.

_I can’t be sent back now._

He gritted his teeth, turned, and bowed to Muinehtë. “I beg your forgiveness, Hunter, for fouling your shot.”

She bared her teeth in a grin. “Aye, and you have it. I like this one, Lord. May we keep him?”

“Even though he fouled your shot?”

Muinehtë regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “He is pleasing to behold. And good with a spear.”

Never in his life had Tyelkormo known himself _appraised_. He bristled visibly, and stalked back to Calintë, grunting a bit as he swung himself back up. “There could be more creatures of Morgoth, my lord,” he said, jaw stubbornly set.

Oromë’s eyes caught his, and for a moment, he felt his mind itself shift and open. Oromë’s mind brushed against his own, and he opened to it without thinking, without hesitating, craving that intimate contact with one so great.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat, and was gone. Tyelkormo drew in a shaking breath, and the hunger rippled through him again, somehow even stronger. It was so strong he felt his cock twitch and fill, and a wild grin split his lips.

They rode, and he shot true, and the wound felt like nothing at all.

They rode for three days. The hunger never abated. Whenever they sighted prey, it intensified, and Tyelkormo had to force himself not to throw himself off of Calintë time and time again, wanting the thrill of the kill over and over again. He caught Oromë looking at him out of the corner of his eye, though, and stayed in the saddle no matter his desires. There was something different about hunting the creatures of the enemy that hunting for food could never match, could _never_ match again. Tyelkormo knew it, in his bones.

At last, the great horn sounded with three massive blasts, declaring the woods clear of all foes. Tyelkormo’s voice rose with all the others, a ferocious cheer that shook the trees themselves, and he gloried to be a part of something so magnificent.

Oromë dismounted, and Nahar butted his head affectionately against his shoulder. Tyelkormo caught the Great Hunter’s eye, and swung down himself, feeling his wound jolt a bit. It hardly troubled him any longer. He had sung to himself in the saddle, when there were no beasts, and knew enough of field medicine to close a wound tight, even if it wasn’t a pretty job. The fire of life burned hot in his family, and he knew it for a minor ache, in the grand scheme of things.

“Today, we take a new member of the Hunt,” Oromë declared, and held out a hand. Tyelkormo hastened forward, and raised his own, but the Great Hunter did not take it. Instead, he settled his on the nape of Tyelkormo’s neck, an unmistakable gesture of possession. “When you hear my horn, you will hasten to my call.”

“Yes, Lord Oromë,” Tyelkormo said immediately. To be at the side of such a one--his breeches felt too tight, just at the idea of being allowed to ride with him, to serve him, in even so small a way.

“Then from today, when you ride with us, you will be Hrávellë,” Oromë declared, and Tyelkormo felt the Name tug at him, a part of himself newly given, that made him feel furtive and proud all at once. Oromë turned to him, and more quietly, added, “My fiercest little elf.”

“Hrávellë!” went up the cry. “Hrávellë! Hrávellë! Hrávellë for the hunt, and Lord Oromë!”

Tyelkormo’s blood pounded. His mouth felt too wet and hot all at once. He did not feel like a proud Son of Fëanáro, he did not feel like a Prince of Tirion, he did not feel like a proper Noldor or an heir of Finwë. He felt like a wild creature, but honored; a predator, but noble.

“I thought you might want to keep this, Hrávellë,” Laimastad told him later, and pressed the head of the arrow he’d taken into his palm. “To remember your first hunt. I know Lord Oromë gave you the boar’s tusks, but...”

Tyelkormo grinned at her, and pocketed the arrowhead. “For luck,” he said, and turned the tusks over in his hands. They were a mighty prize, for all that he hadn’t truly ended the beast’s life. That had been Lord Oromë, and the crack of his boot against the beast’s throat.

Tyelkormo thought he knew what it felt like. He, too, had felt Lord Oromë upon his neck, though for him it was the broad touch of his palm, the soft stroke of his calloused fingertips. He had smelled of crushed leaves and bright silver and other things Tyelkormo had no name for, but would gladly spend his whole life studying, just to find those names and know them for his own someday.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like? To be one of the First?”

Tyelkormo stared up at the sky, the bright light of Laurelin washing the woods in golden radiance. He wore his tunic and breeches only, having stricken off the sleeves of his hunting shirts so often that Maitimo had finally confiscated them. His boots stood off to the side of the river along with Tilion and Poldolúva’s, waiting for them to dry off from their swim.

“Often,” he admitted. “To wander in those wilds, with no laws or customs to foul our desires.”

“Laws and customs?” Poldolúva teased. “That’s what you would dream of?”

“...No,” Tyelkormo said, with a laugh. “If anything...”

“Aye,” Tilion put in, with a dreamy sigh. “If I were an elf, that is what I would desire, too.”

They spoke of it, sometimes, in the exhaustion after the Hunt, when their limbs were tingling with soreness and injury, and their bellies were full of fresh meat roasted on the bonfires afterwards. Tyelkormo wasn’t certain that a Maia could _truly_ understand how he felt, but the longing they spoke of was familiar to him.

“To be discovered by such a one...” Tyelkormo shivered, and he reached down shamelessly, tugging open his breeches, and taking himself in hand. He didn’t look, but heard rustling, and knew he wasn’t the only one to be inspired by the bloodlust of the hunt. “In the star-draped darkness, to see those eyes burning as he came upon them--“

“Would that he would come upon me,” Poldolúva muttered, and though they laughed, there was a hitching of breath, and Tyelkormo tugged at his cock, imagining how it must have felt when Lord Oromë’s eyes were the only things shedding light in the darkness of the world. His grandfather’s stories had not been quite so erotic as Tyelkormo liked to imagine it, but the awe was the same as he felt.

Tilion and Poldolúva were more earthy, easier to talk to than the other Maiar he’d met. So many of them seemed ethereal and ineffable, frustrating and boring like the Valar they served. But Lord Oromë wasn’t like the rest of the Valar, and Tilion and Poldolúva were his friends. They ate, they ran, they sweated, and they lay with him like this, stark and wanting at the thought of Lord Oromë’s broad shoulders and resonant voice, and what he might do with the hands that wielded such a great bow.

“Do you think he would have taken his pleasure, if he had seen me there?” Tyelkormo asked dreamily, the callouses on his fingertips dragging over the sensitive skin of his cock, his bare toes curling at the thought. “I would have been most devoted.”

“You _are_ most devoted,” Tilion remarked, and the words would have been dry but for the way they hitched at the end.

“And most fair,” Poldolúva added breathlessly. “Hrávellë, he would have loved the fire in your eyes.”

“I’m going to make trial at the festival,” Tyelkormo said with a sudden rush of conviction, and heard both his friends suck in a sharp breath. “I’m going to run with the bear.”

“It’s your first time--“

“No one runs the first time--“

“I must.” Tyelkormo’s voice was firm, but so full of aching hunger that the others did not gainsay him. “To see them run out and not join--to see him bestow that prize upon another, I cannot bear it.”

“...None of the Eldar have ever claimed the prize,” Poldolúva said hesitantly.

Tyelkormo pulled at himself fiercely, the blood pounding in his ears, the drag of his fingertips not rough enough, not big enough, desperate for the touch of a greater hand. Thus it had been, since his very first hunt, after which he’d been unable to spend himself save at the thought of the Great Hunter’s hand upon the back of his neck. That had been Years ago, but the flame of hunger was no less bright in him in the long times since.

And the Festival of Embers was nearly upon them.

The others in the train spoke of it in hushed tones. It was held once a century, a hundred years of the Trees between each one, and this was the first since Tyelkormo had come to the hunt. He knew himself for an adult now, a proud member of Oromë’s train, a position that even his elder brothers and parents had to respect, for he was the only one of them to be given a position of trust and importance by one of the Valar themselves. Let Makalaurë sing his songs, let Curufinwë sweat at his forge, let the twins gasp in delight at the gardens, let Maitimo sit at Grandfather’s side in the Great Halls and Palaces, let Moryo devote himself to letters and numbers. Tyelkormo had the Hunt, and they had him, and he had joy and purpose.

At the Festival of Embers, he would show Lord Oromë, and all others, that he was the greatest of their number. He would run with the Great Bear, and never flag, and endure whatever might come, and emerge victorious.

What followed was meant to be a secret, but Tilion and Poldolúva liked him, and whispered sometimes in his ear as they touched themselves, that Lord Oromë would claim the one who lasted with the bear until the end as his prize, and he would know what it was to serve in every way, _hröa_ and _fëa_. Since hearing that, the idea had dominated his dreams and waking fancies, unless he was riding at the hunt.

Nearby, his mare stomped a foot. He had a larger horse than before, a clever and powerful mare that knew his mind like he knew his own, and followed the commands of his legs with no need for rein or bridle. He rode her with a pad only, for the sake of attaching bags to the girth, for he little needed a saddle.

 _Soon, soon,_ chirped the birds overhead. _The Light is changing soon. Soon, soon._

His hand sped up. “I will be the first,” he said, speaking his desire aloud for the first time. “I will be the one to claim the prize.”

“You will _be_ the prize,” Tilion said, and his voice caught, and he groaned. “Ah...you would be _lovely_ under the bonfire, Hrávellë...”

Poldolúva gripped his hand suddenly, at the limits of his own endurance, and bit off a cry, just as Tyelkormo found his own release, at the thought of Lord Oromë standing over him in the darkness, lit only by flickering embers.

The Light began to mingle, as Tyelkormo stared up at the sky through the curtain of leaves. “I will run with the bear,” he murmured dazedly, in a dreamlike haze. “I’ll allow no other to have the honor.”

“If any of the Eldar could,” Tilion said, rolling onto his side to purr the words into Tyelkormo’s ear with silvery grace, “it is you, Hrávellë.”

“But we won’t make it easy on you,” Poldolúva added, rolling close to him on the other side.

Tyelkormo wiped his hand onto the grass, and lay there surrounded by them. He could not imagine his proud and stuffy brothers doing such a thing, with other elves or with Maiar, but that was because they did not understand. They had never felt the hunger, the chase in their souls. They knew not what it was to give everything of himself, and feel it rewarded a hundredfold with raw purpose and fulfillment.

They hunted. They did not know the Hunt.

Even with Curvo, with whom he shared all else, he would not share this.

~

The bear was enormous.

Tyelkormo had hunted bears before. They were huge and powerful creatures, with thick layers of hide and fat and muscle, and claws that could knock the head right off a horse. Tyelkormo had hunted them, and respected them for predators like himself. He also respected them as being very delicious.

The bears of Morgoth were a different sort, so fierce that all the hunters were forbidden to ride out against them without support of the train. Their eyes burned, and their claws were too long, and they ripped trees in half for the pleasure of destruction, kindling fires and sowing discord in the land itself. Tyelkormo had fought those, and acquitted himself well, and been injured, many times, always to the fury of his lord.

The festival’s Great Bear was another sort of creature entirely. It was pure black, melting through the forest as if it belonged there and were not a creature summoned by the Hunt’s ritual. It stood twice again as tall as the others Tyelkormo had hunted, more than twice as tall as Lord Oromë himself, and each great paw dug a furrow in the earth large enough that Tyelkormo had to steer Ercavanië around them for fear her hooves would slip in the loose dirt. Now, of course, he had to leave his mare with those who weren’t running. No mounts would be harmed through the folly of their riders.

Tyelkormo, Poldolúva, three other Eldar, and five other Maiar were daring the run. Tyelkormo knew them all, and elected to pretend they were not there. This was no contest he could win by knocking his opponents back--though if it were, he would do it, even to his friends, and never pause to think whether he should not. He sprinted forward, trusting to his legs and his reflexes, following the bear’s trail through the woods.

The Light dimmed.

The Festival of Embers was held to commemorate the first great trial of the Unbegotten Eldar near Cuiviénen, and there had been no Light beyond the stars. Now, the Valar Vana and Yavanna sang, and over the woods on this night, nothing shone but tiny white twinklings, far overhead.

Tyelkormo ran.

His blood thrummed in his body, swift and hot. He put everything out of his mind except the chase, and felt his legs moving more fluidly, more gracefully than they ever had before. He leapt, ducked, and dashed, and more than once, heard startled oaths as those behind him stepped wrong, and the bear was on them.

None of his family would understand. No one back in Tirion could possibly comprehend why they would run, letting themselves be savaged by the shadows if they stumbled.

The hunger pooled in Tyelkormo’s belly, and he bared his teeth, a predator among predators, and would not be cowed.

Poldolúva lasted until the Broken Ridge, then faltered at the precipice. Tyelkormo snatched a stick from the ground, and vaulted without pausing, hearing Poldolúva cry out behind him as he was taken down. He would not _die_ , of course. The Festival was brutal, but not cruel. Lady Vana would be waiting back at the bonfire, to sing closed the wounds of any wounded in the chase.

Everything seemed to blur and sharpen at the same time. He moved, and saw the flicker of branches, the scythe of the bear’s claw, his toes sinking into the dirt. Everything came in flashes, but the wind on his skin told him he was flying through the woods at great speed, heedless of any danger--nay, faster _for_ the danger, running _into_ it, launching himself through thickets and groves with no regard for his bodily well being.

He saw a flash, and ducked without thinking, throwing himself into a roll, and felt himself slam into a tree. The bear came for him, closing, and he launched to the side, laughing wildly. One huge paw caught him at last, and knocked him back, sending him staggering--

\--Directly into the bonfire clearing.

Suddenly, the drums boomed all around him, in a swift, thrumming cadence. Valaróma sounded, and Tyelkormo looked around wildly, trying to see who, who could have beaten him, he had tried so _hard_ \--

A hand clapped his shoulder, and he hissed, turning to see Tilion grinning at him from under a deerskull mask. He nodded, his eyes sparking in the darkness, and Tyelkormo stared at him, uncomprehending.

Then another Maia--not Poldolúva, he was back somewhere in the wilderness--took his other shoulder, and steered him towards the bonfire. Every eye was on him, and Tyelkormo felt his heart pound. He could not see Oromë. “Is it--did I do it?” he asked, realizing his teeth were chattering. Longing and hunger wracked him, and he throbbed with pain from the bear’s claws, but he stayed upright, beseeching.

“You did,” came a voice, viscous with power and heavy with darkness.

Tyelkormo looked up, and saw the Lady Vana, standing tall above him, dark flowers braided into her spilling hair. She reached out a hand, and ran it gently over his side, where the bear had caught him. The clawmarks faded in an instant to bright silver lines, wrapping around his ribcage. He had acquired many scars, in the many Hunts he’d ridden in, and cherished each one.

This one, he would cherish above all others.

The Maiar bade him kneel in front of Lady Vana, who lifted her voice in song. The fire blazed brighter, and the elves and Maiar around the fire took up the melody, some of them trilling, others ululating, some simply beating their drums with increased fervor.

There were five Maiar touching him, he thought. They undressed him, as the fire raged, and Vana sang. They washed him with water from the spring nearby, scrubbing him free of the soil and plants he’d acquired on his run, chilling his aching flesh, soothing his lacerated feet. Truthfully, he hadn’t noticed any injuries, and would have foregone it, but the washing was a part of it. He was to be free now of the darkness.

He was to be Found.

They coaxed him down to his knees on the grass, and then to all fours. He shivered, feeling their touches, and let his head tip forward, pale hair falling about his ears to pool beneath him. His fingers curled in the soft earth as the song grew fevered and intent. They combed his hair, stroked his back, and eased his knees apart, tugging up on his hips until he felt himself blatantly exposed, vulnerable.

His heart thudded in triumph. He had done it. _He had done it_. The first of the Eldar to win the great bear run at the Festival of Embers, and _he had done it_ , as he’d known he would.

A hand brushed his backside, and he knew it for Tilion. Then something warm and wet trickled down onto him, and he sucked in a breath, bending down to rest his weight on his forearms as they bid him. No words were spoken. The First Elves had not yet had speech, in the same way, and Tyelkormo spoke none of the Avarin tongues.

As if his prostration were the sign, he felt more hands rubbing over him, preparing and oiling him from neck to thighs, the soft, intent touches so perfect against his skin that he began to tremble. _Soon_ , he reminded himself, with gluttonous desire. _Soon_ , he would be Found.

They rubbed the oil into him, and one finger traced down the cleft of his buttocks to dip into his hole. He inhaled sharply, but it was gone, replaced by another, and another, sometimes two at once, sometimes three, twisting and stretching and slicking him as the hands continued to rove all over his body, working him into a frenzy. They touched him everywhere but his cock and balls, brushing over his inner thighs, rubbing over his nipples, kneading into the tense muscles of his back and neck.

He kept his head down, as he was bid. Lady Vana sang. He felt loose and pliant, braced on knees and elbows, as one Maia’s hand slipped four fingers inside of him, making him shudder.

If they had been able to speak, he thought Tilion might have mocked him in friendship, for yes, of _course_ he had practiced, prepared, made himself ready night after night in the dark of his room alone, dreaming of the day he would run with the bear. Of _course_ he had known he would win. He couldn’t shame himself, couldn’t shame his Lord, so he had abstained from eating for two days before this hunt, and for weeks had practiced, even if he wasn’t a _hundred_ percent certain that Poldolúva and Tilion weren’t just fucking with him about what the ceremony entailed.

They had not been just fucking with him. He knew that now, and was grateful for the time he’d spent with his fingers, a fat candlestick, and a pot of oil he’d shamelessly stolen from Maitimo’s room that he thought was probably for his hair. Let his family catch him someday, making off with oil and candles. They could not understand what it was to feel hungry, like a hunter.

One of the fingers brushed cleverly inside of him, and he keened low in his throat. No one mocked him. They stoked his fires, never letting him get too close, never doing more than teasing and preparing, until he was panting against his forearms, sweat beading on his hairline and down his spine from the obscene way they stretched him.

All eyes were on him, on the flickering firelight against his skin. He knew, and gloried in it, knowing his form fair enough even among Valar and Maiar, certainly fairer than the other Eldar who joined the hunt. And he was swift, and he was fierce as the name Oromë had given him, and he had brought honor to his lord.

The fingers withdrew.

The drums stopped.

Lady Vana stopped singing.

Tyelkormo’s fingers gripped at the grass.

Sweat dripped from his forehead.

His cock throbbed, heavy and untouched beneath him.

And Oromë came to him.

Tyelkormo had expected to be taken bestially, and was not disappointed. His lord put one large hand on his upper back, pressing his chest flat to the ground, and hiked up his hips. He had the barest second to feel the great head of Oromë’s cock pressed against him, too large, far too large, there was _no way_ \--

Then it popped through the tight ring of muscle, making him sob as it worked him open, stretching his hole wider than he thought possible. Oromë’s powerful body gathered him close, and bent to his task like the sacrament it was, filling Tyelkormo with rough little thrusts.

The smell of crushed grass and wet earth filled Tyelkormo’s nose. Would he ever be able to run through the woods again without remembering the tense, aching stretch of Oromë the Great Hunter stuffing him full with his massive cock, making him pant like a dog, tears streaming from his eyes? Would he ever _want_ to?

Oromë let out a rough grunt, and his hips snapped forward, until he was buried entirely inside Tyelkormo’s shuddering, unresisting body. As if that sound were a starting pistol, a low growl went up from around the fire, all the hunters grunting, growling, and snarling in unison, as if they, too, had their cocks buried inside of him. He was so full he might as well have been taking all of them, cramping and trembling and writhing beneath the weight of every Hunter present.

But he wasn’t.

It was only Oromë above him, around him, _inside_ him. It was only Oromë, claiming him as his own for the night.

 _For all time_ , Tyelkormo thought, dazed and delirious, shoving weakly back whenever he could move. Mostly, Oromë didn’t let him. He moved Tyelkormo’s body where he wanted, pinning him down and mounting him without concern or hesitation, his massive cock making it impossible for Tyelkormo to even breathe when it was sheathed in his twitching body.

The bonfire blazed, not quite as hot as whatever crackled and hissed between Tyelkormo and his lord. He knew he was a sacrifice, knew that he was a stand-in for the gratitude the Eldar felt for their savior, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt as if Oromë was taking him apart, battering him ruthlessly, and Tyelkormo did _not_ sob. He did _not_ scream. He bit into his forearm, he squeezed his eyes shut, and he gripped the grass itself, feeling the young roots tear free of the soil.

The grunting grew in volume, and Tyelkormo felt something in himself _change_.

His back arched, and he felt a strange, slippery pleasure suddenly thrum through his body. His mouth dropped open, and he gasped, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he humped helplessly back, desperate for more, his eyes crossing.

For the first time since he rode out with Oromë, he did not feel hungry.

Tyelkormo knew he was panting like a bitch in heat, and did not care. Oromë slammed into him rougher and rougher, his thrusts increasing in urgency and force, until Tyelkormo’s legs gave out completely, and he slumped, helpless, only held up by Oromë’s thick cock and powerful hands.

One brutal thrust took him by surprise, and he finally cried out, slammed forward until the head of his cock dragged across the grass. The sudden friction was so startling it felt like a brand, and he felt his _fëa_ sing in a way he had never thought possible, painting the grass with his release.

Someone let out a feral howl. Tyelkormo wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t himself.

Time went blurry. Tyelkormo felt grass crushed against his cheek. Oromë let out a final, earthshaking bellow, and then Tyelkormo was suddenly over-hot and full, squirming desperately, letting out weak little whimpering noises.

Slowly, Tyelkormo felt his spirit come back into his body, and gasped for air. A whooping cheer went up around the fire, and then Oromë was pulling slowly out of him, leaving him sloppy, stretched, and utterly blissed out.

Strong arms gathered him up. “Hrávellë,” Oromë breathed into his ear, and stroked his chest and face, calloused fingertips petting him gently. “My swift, wild little elf.”

“...Yours,” Tyelkormo agreed with a fierce possession in his voice, and slumped back against him, eyes rolling back into his head.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re _certain_ it doesn’t hurt too much?”

Tyelkormo scoffed. “This is nothing. Make sure you get all the little lines of the leaves, they’re important.”

“I’m _getting_ all the veins--you know they’re called veins, right?”

“Whatever. Does it look good?” He craned his neck, and Curufinwë yanked on his hair, keeping him in place.

“Do I have to sit on you to make you keep still?” Curvo demanded. “You asked me to do this, so stop moving, or you won’t like how it turns out.”

“Just like the plant I showed you,” Tyelkormo insisted, and tried not to flex or squirm. “That’s the symbol that the great Hunters wear. Honestly, it feels itchy more than anything.”

“That Maia you brought said it would.”

“Aye,” Tyelkormo admitted, “but I don’t like feeling itchy.”

The needle was poking him most disagreeably, but he supposed that was the point. It would hardly be able to put the ink under his skin if it didn’t go far enough inside. It did hurt, a _bit_ , but Curufinwë’s hand was the steadiest of all his brothers, and he worked quickly and smoothly, even at a task he’d never attempted before.

They’d practiced on a pig, who had been very concerned about being shaved and tattooed. Curufinwë had proven most adept at the task, and Tyelkormo had beamed, and immediately stripped off his shirt. The design had to be nearly done, he thought, and drummed the fingers of his right hand insistently as his brother worked on his left shoulder. “How does it look?” he asked, for the fifth time.

“Like a plant, but on your skin.”

“But does it look very impressive?”

“I...” Curufinwë gave him a helpless shrug. Then, slowly, his mouth twitched. “It _does_ look impressive,” he admitted. “I’ll have you learn to do this to me, I think.”

“Really?” Tyelkormo grinned. “What do you want? The star?”

“Of course the star.”

“Oh! We should all get it!”

“Hold _still_ , Turko, or you’re getting a blurry leaf.”

“Don’t make it blurry!”

“Well, quit moving!”

“Both of you, stop yelling!” Maitimo rounded the corner, glaring daggers at both of them, his brow furrowing at the sight of Tyelkormo, sitting impatiently in a chair at the kitchen table, Curufinwë bent over him with a needle and a few pots of ink. “ _What_ are you two doing?”

“I’m getting decorated,” Tyelkormo declared proudly. “Many of Oromë’s hunters are thus. Well, the good ones,” he amended, with a smug sense of pride. “He told me I was allowed to get one, if I wanted.”

“I think we should all get the star,” Curufinwë added. “Wouldn’t that look good? Maybe on the back?”

“Why on the back? I want to see mine!”

“Well, you can look at mine.”

“Why would I want to look at _you_? I’m far more fair.”

“We should just put it on your head, it’s so large we’ll all be able to see it from anywhere in Aman.”

“My helms are standard-size!”

“Not that you ever wear one.”

“Well, my hair looks better without one.”

“I’m not getting a tattoo,” Maitimo said flatly. “And you’re an idiot.”

Tyelkormo sniffed, and relaxed back under the needle, as it poked and dug under his skin. It was nothing to a bear’s claw, or to an arrow. Even now, he wore the head of the arrow that had pierced him on his first hunt, braided among feathers and cords in his hair. “You’re jealous,” he declared. “Because I’ve found my calling.”

“Hunting isn’t a _calling_. We all hunt. Even Makalaurë hunts.”

“Why do you say _even_ Makalaurë?” Makalaurë demanded through the kitchen’s open window, and Tyelkormo realized only then that he’d been hearing the soft strains of a harp for the better part of an hour.

“Because, Káno,” Maitimo said patiently, “when given the choice, you would prefer to move as little as possible.”

“That is _not_ true.”

“Except for your fingers.”

Makalaurë strummed his harp in a fashion Tyelkormo could only think of as _threatening_. “I think I shall write a song, Russandol. And I think it will be called Deep in the Rowan Grove. Do you know what I recently witnessed in the rowan--“

Maitimo grabbed a ripe fruit from the counter, and chucked it unerringly out the window, hearing a satisfying _splat_.

“ _Russo! My robes!_ ”

“Use your harp as a washboard, if you must,” Maitimo shot back, and Tyelkormo thought there was a strange edge to his voice, and a weird glint in his eye.

“There,” Curufinwë announced, and all eyes turned to him instead, and to the curling pattern of green and silver now winding around Tyelkormo’s upper arm. “Done. I have no idea what to do with it now.”

“Tilion said to wipe it gently with a cloth,” Tyelkormo said, but he was distracted already, flexing and turning his arm, watching the design move with his skin. “Stars above, Curvo, this is _very_ good. I want more!”

“I’m out of ink.”

Tyelkormo scowled, but relented when Curufinwë wiped off his arm with a clean cloth, and the design was somehow even more vibrant. He jumped up from the table, thrusting his arm first in front of Maitimo’s face, then leaning out the window to show Makalaurë, who despite his protests, looked mildly impressed.

He tousled Curufinwë’s hair in thanks, then bolted out of the kitchen, pausing only to tug on his boots before taking to the woods.

He ran, feeling the wind in his hair, hearing the ornaments clicking together. The grass crushed beneath his feet, and the scent threw him back to the night of the festival, and Lord Oromë’s body above his own. He had dreamed of it every time he had slept since, always wakened either hard or covered in his own spend, and found himself actually considering asking the candlemakers exactly how large a candle they could fashion, and in what shapes.

So far he had not sunk _quite_ so low. Some days, when he had not seen Lord Oromë for a length of time, and he deliberately lay in the grass and crushed it between his fingers for the smell, he nearly did.

If he ran fast enough, he would find whatever there was to find. All he had to do was run. He was swift as a young deer, when he wished to be, and hurtled through the woods, feeling far more at home than he ever did in his father’s house.

Instinct screamed at him, sudden and fierce, and he threw himself to the side and down, landing in a clump of brambles as a shape streaked by, just where he would have been had he not moved. It pounced, turned to him, and Tyelkormo felt his blood run cold.

The shadowcat was huge. Its eyes glittered with forbidden fires, a creature of Morgoth, and its claws were so long they raked furrows in the forest floor even while retracted. It was twice his own length, corded with hard lean muscle, and those predator’s eyes focused unerringly on Tyelkormo.

Belatedly, Tyelkormo realized he had not, in fact, brought any weapons with him. He hadn’t intended on being gone _long_ , after all, and he wasn’t hunting. _Lord Oromë is going to be so angry with me if I die_ , he thought, resigned to the idea, and leapt into the closest tree, scampering up as if he were a cat himself.

The shadowcat snarled, and followed, faster than Tyelkormo thought it should be allowed to move, sliding up the tree so lithely it looked more like water than like an animal. Tyelkormo climbed, hardly feeling each branch and twig beneath his fingers and boots, climbing the bark itself. The cat was fast, he was fast, and far from finding Lord Oromë, now he could _never_ face Lord Oromë again, if he would have to admit that he had ventured into the woods alone without a weapon.

He whipped his head back to see the shadowcat following him, and cursed. It was too close, _on_ him, and his hair whipped him in the face, all cords and trinkets he’d collected, and--

With a vicious yank, he pulled the arrowhead free from his hair and positioned it between two of his fingers, twisting around to slash at the shadowcat’s face. It hissed, recognizing the danger. The arrowhead was long and slender, about the length of one of his fingers, and he scratched at the cat’s nose, making it yowl loud enough that the leaves shook.

It was fast, but he was nimble, and he hoisted himself up onto a long, light branch, easily running, leaping from branch to branch, leading it--

Then he saw the edge of the woods, and the rowan grove.

And his brother Makalaurë, sitting in a tree, plucking his harp and singing.

Makalaurë, who was quite a competent hunter in his own right, but who wore no armor or weapons most days, and would be easy prey for a shadowcat of Morgoth, tangled up in his own robes.

The shadowcat heard the music, Tyelkormo saw, and started to lose interest in him, focusing instead on the sound. It growled low in its throat, dropping down lithely to stalk through the undergrowth.

Tyelkormo bared his teeth, felt the hunger ripple through him, and embraced it. There was no time for thinking, no time for wishing he had his bow, only time to choose between being a hunter, and being the prey.

He chose, and leapt.

It was not like flinging himself on the boar. That had been stupid, but at least he’d had a spear. This time, he attacked with his teeth and his hands, scratching and ripping and snarling and biting, wrapping his legs around the shadowcat with a howl of his own. Let the Shadow send its creatures to harry the helpless. Let Morgoth make easy prey out of stragglers and wandering campers. He, Hrávallë of Oromë’s hunt, was no helpless prey.

Suddenly, the shadowcat went limp in his arms.

Tyelkormo panted, his blood pounding, and suddenly the places where the cat had bitten and scratched him burned like fire. He heaved himself up dazedly, and saw a long knife, buried to the hilt in the cat’s enormous head.

“What are you doing wrestling a shadowcat, Tyelko?” Makalaurë asked, with the exact same inflection that he had used to ask, _“Why is there a weasel giving birth under your bed, Tyelko?”_ years earlier. “Those things are dangerous.” With that, he pulled his knife free, wiping it fastidiously on the creature’s pelt.

Tyelkormo huffed, pulling free of the cat, shaking his hair out. He still clutched the arrowhead, and braided it back into his hair, trying to look as though all of this had been completely on purpose. “You wouldn’t understand,” he lied, and turned back to the house, determined to get his bow before showing his face in the woods again. “It’s a hunter thing.”


	4. Chapter 4

Not every interaction with Lord Oromë was a wrathful one. Tyelkormo would not have minded if it were; his wrath made him terrible, but _great_ , too. It was not that he did not fear Oromë’s wrath. Only a fool would not. Even _Morgoth_ feared Oromë’s wrath. Tyelkormo quivered with the rest of the Hunt when Oromë’s rage shook the ground and shivered their spears, when the creatures of Morgoth turned tail and fled to avoid the blaze in his eyes and the bloody swath of his spear.

At least with friends in the Hunt (for they were all his friends now, could hardly be anything else after what they often shared), he knew he wasn’t the only one to grow hard and aching whenever he was frightened in that way.

But sometimes, in a rare and blissful moment, there were other moments between them.

Exile was a painful and confusing time. His father’s rage was no less potent than Oromë’s, but Tyelkormo found it easy to avoid him. His brothers grew hard and cranky and maudlin by turns, withdrawing into their crafts and hobbies. Maitimo was often writing long essays he never let anyone read and pining out the window about the Exile, Makalaurë never left off his cattier songs, Curufinwë forged weapons at all hours, Morifinwë made a nuisance of himself correcting everyone’s ledgers and issuing orders to the servants, and the Ambarussa were rarely seen, disappearing on long journeys, supposedly into the woods. Tyelkormo knew better. The woods belonged to _him_. The Ambarussa liked the woods, but they liked their mother’s house better.

Tyelkormo took off to the woods, and stayed there for weeks, months on end. He never left off his bow or blade again, learning even to sleep with them at hand or upon his person, and became very difficult indeed to surprise.

Lord Oromë was an exception, of course.

He came from the woods as though materializing out of the air itself, and Tyelkormo dropped immediately to one knee, a half-skinned rabbit in hand. “My lord,” he said, breathlessly eager.

“Come with me.”

Tyelkormo followed obediently, trotting along at Oromë’s side. He knew not how long they walked, but it wasn’t long enough. Being at the side of such a one could hardly be anything other than the fulfillment of his life, the only place he felt himself, the only place he felt _right_. Oromë laid his hand on the back of Tyelkormo’s neck in obvious possession, and it was all Tyelkormo could do not to purr.

Oromë led him to a clearing Tyelkormo had never seen before, somehow, in all his ramblings through Yavanna’s woods. There was a curving bunch of branches, creating a shelter large enough for even the biggest of the bears Tyelkormo had ever chased, and he could see great swathes of grey and tan fur, wiggling around between the branches.

“Kneel for me.”

Tyelkormo dropped to his knees with no hesitation. He thought Oromë sounded pleased, letting out a little hum. Then the great hunter let out a low whistle, and the largest wolfhound Tyelkormo had ever seen came trotting out, followed by three chubby puppies, each one the size of one of the Ambarussa on all fours.

“This is Elatildë,” Oromë told him, affection in his voice. He lay a hand on the dog’s head, and Tyelkormo considered fighting her. “One of my most noble companions. You’ve seen her run with us before.”

“Of course,” Tyelkormo murmured, his hands tightening into fists against his thighs. Was Oromë going to ask him to wrestle the dog? Was he going to make Tyelkormo live in the kennels? He probably would, if that would please his lord.

Elatildë gaped at him in a wolfish grin, then turned, nudging all of her pups forward. They tumbled against each other, still clumsy and large-pawed, yipping cheerfully and attempting to pounce on each other.

“Her pups are fine and strong, are they not?”

“Yes, my lord.” Did Oromë want _him_ to have children? He would, if his lord willed it.

Oromë’s hand came down, plucking up the smallest of the pups. He raised it up, looking critically at the dog, who immediately lunged forward, trying to lick the Vala’s nose. It yipped, tail wagging, as if it had no idea what sort of power held it. “This one,” Oromë said. “This is a great spirit, perhaps the greatest of any that will ever run with my Hunt.”

Tyelkormo frowned. He was certainly stronger and faster than any puppy. “I--“ He clamped his jaws shut, blushing, not wanting to be too obviously jealous of an animal. “Very good, Lord Oromë.”

“He will always keep faith with a true spirit,” Oromë continued, as if he had not spoken. “And--hmm.” He frowned, and poked the dog, who wiggled in his hand, and snapped playfully at his hair. “If no marring darkens his future, he will never be killed, while his master is faithful.”

Tyelkormo’s eyes widened. “This dog will be so great?”

“Perhaps. If he finds the right partner to run with.”

Tyelkormo looked around, curious. “Like a stag?”

Oromë dumped the puppy onto his lap, where it promptly yipped, then stood up on its hind feet, licking his face. It was nearly as large as he was, and so soft Tyelkormo buried his fingers in that fur immediately, a grin splitting his lips. “Ah...he’s so...” _Cute_ , his mind said, but Lord Oromë had presented him such a grand destiny, full of bold prophecies and doom. “...Fierce?”

“Fierce like you, Hrávellë. I think the two of you will be a good match.”

Slowly, the words sank in. Tyelkormo looked up, startled, joy spreading across his features. “Really, my lord?”

“You accept my gift?”

Tyelkormo looked up, and met Oromë’s blazing eyes. “I accept anything you would give me,” he said, and meant it. His hands fisted in the puppy’s fur, keeping him from reaching out for his lord and embarrassing himself. “Does he have a name?”

“I’ll leave that to you.”

“Wait!”

Oromë paused, on the verge of turning away. He was often thus. Tyelkormo understood; he hated also to stay in one place when the activity was done, when no more remained to be said. Tyelkormo swallowed. Now that he had his lord’s attention, what could he say?

“Thank you,” he blurted. “And...” Dare he?

Of course he dared. The worst Oromë could do was be insulted and take it out on him, and he doubted the Vala would kill him for his insolence. He had been insolent before, when Oromë had liked him far less.

So, he dared.

“And I would ask you, my lord, to accept me, as an offering in exchange.”

Oromë did not move. He was still as an elf could never be still, as any creature who breathed and ate and lived in mortal flesh could never be still. “You wish to be an offering, Hrávellë?”

Tyelkormo’s mouth went dry, and he carefully petted the puppy’s head, setting him down on all four big squishy feet. The puppy didn’t need to be a part of this. “If that is what my lord wishes of me.”

“Elegant words do not suit your fair form,” Oromë told him bluntly. “Ask for what you would have.”

Tyelkormo scowled, and felt his face flush. “Fine,” he muttered, and forced his hands to unclench against his thighs. “I take no pleasure unless it be at the memory of your body on mine, my lord. I wear your mark, but I wish every mark I had were of your hands. I kneel at your command, and wish that you would bid me so a thousand times a day. Please do not make me wait another _ranga_ to feel your touch again, I will be thoroughly mad by then for lack of use. If you asked it of me, I would run with the bear every day, twice a day, just to feel you your hands upon me again.”

He looked up, silver hair falling from his shoulders as he moved his head, his eyes beseeching. “I make no claim upon you, save that I wish to be your servitor in all ways. If there is any way you might make use of me, I beg you to do it, for pleasure or for utility, for you...to me, my lord, your teachings and your favor are all I desire.”

“My teachings and favor,” Oromë rumbled, and stepped closer. Tyelkormo knew he should be afraid. “And my _fana_.”

Tyelkormo nodded, unabashed. “Aye, you are magnificent.”

“You make no claim upon me?” Oromë’s eyes were hot with the fires of creation itself, and Tyelkormo felt his thighs tremble, aching to prostrate himself before such a one, knowing Oromë would prefer him unbowed. “What sort of hunter would release a prize once he brings it down?”

Tyelkormo’s eyes widened. “What?” he asked, and knew it was not exactly his most intelligent response.

One big hand reached out, mottled with green streaks and whorls, and it was gentle when it brushed through his hair, freeing it of its braid. Tyelkormo’s back arched, and he sucked in a swift breath, hearing his heart thundering against his ribcage. For that touch to his hair alone, he could not think of a thing he would not dare.

“Would you run forever at my side?” Oromë continued, and his fingertips brushed over Tyelkormo’s cheekbones, his jawline, down to his neck. “As Ingwë sits at Manwë’s feet, all of his glory given to the King of the Valar, would you dedicate yourself to me thus?”

“Yes,” Tyelkormo said, his breath hitching at the very idea, no hesitation in his voice.

“Then--“

“Wait.”

Tyelkormo’s head snapped to the side, eyes wide and fierce. Who would dare to gainsay him, or Lord Oromë? His lips drew back from his teeth, hand tensing to go to his bow, before he saw who arrived and forced himself still.

Lady Vana, Oromë’s wife, glided out of the trees to stand next to the great hunter, and her eyes were sorrowful. “Not this one,” she said, and her eyes were gold and hard, falling upon Tyelkormo’s kneeling form.

Tyelkormo’s mouth dropped open. “Lady Vana,” he protested, hands balling into fists on his thighs, “I seek to interfere with nothing that would belong to you, I could be no threat to one such as you!”

She regarded him cooly, and laced her fingers through her husband’s. “Indeed, such a one as you could be no threat. But still, I will forbid him your service.”

“Why?” Tyelkormo demanded, and shot to his feet, feeling anger boil through him. “Have I not always been faithful? I wear his mark, I would _gladly_ dedicate my life to his service, his worship!”

“That is not your fate. Vairë has begun the weaving of it already.” Flowers dripped golden light from her hair. Tyelkormo thought them suddenly hideous, next to the proud antlers that sprouted from Oromë’s head. “You live in Exile, son of Fëanáro, for defiance of the Valar’s commands, yet you would pledge yourself to one of us?”

“It is not I who was exiled!”

“But you choose that path for yourself.”

Tyelkormo’s blood boiled. He wished Oromë would _say_ something, instead of letting his wife strip Tyelkormo down to his bones with her words. “I have never done anything to shame my lord,” he said, and tried not to let his voice be a snarl. “My service and love have ever been his, to request or to take, and that will never change!”

“It will,” Vana said implacably. “I say this for your sake as well as my husband’s, Turcafinwë. You _will_ break faith with him. If I allow you to pledge, it will only harm both of you in the future.”

“You question my honor!” Tyelkormo shouted, and felt his face redden as if he were Moryo, tears of humiliation threatening at the back of his eyes. “I must make answer of it somehow!”

“Peace, Hrávellë,” Oromë finally spoke, and laid his hand on Tyelkormo’s hair once more. He heard himself breathing hard, nearly hiccuping with fury and stress, and strove to calm himself. “You have ever been a faithful companion to me. My wife sees far, and you are young.”

“He will be yet young when this comes to pass,” Vana said, and Oromë’s blazing gaze turned to her.

“You would forbid me this pledge in truth?” he demanded. “Not merely counsel you offer, but an edict? From whom?”

“From one who sees far, and knows more.” Vana did not object when Oromë took his hand from hers, but neither did she move, unshakeable in the face of his wrath. “Aye, I forbid you this one. As is my right.”

“But how may I defend myself?” Tyelkormo demanded, dashing angry tears from his eyes, no matter how he forbade them to fall. “I, who am called faithless and churl, ungrateful for my lord’s favor? How shall I speak against you, without proving your point of being rebellious?”

“You may not,” Vana told him, unmoved by his pleas.

“But I’m being judged for something I will not do! This cannot be justice!”

“Peace,” Oromë said again, and this time, there was a warning in his voice, and Tyelkormo subsided. He looked between the two of them, his wife tall and implacable, ringed with flowers of gold, and Tyelkormo, straight-backed and proud and furious. “You may counsel me, wife, but you may _not_ forbid me from taking a willing supplicant. However,” he continued, raising a hand, “you may delay me. Tyelkormo. If you run with the bear at the next Festival of Embers, and you still desire to enter my service, I will take you as my own.”

Dismay mixed with relief, and hot tears streamed down Tyelkormo’s face. “Not until then? But--but that is near an _age_ from now!”

“Are you not of the Eldar, the ever-young? What matter years? What matter Ages?”

“But...” _But I’ve only lived twenty Valian years,_ Tyelkormo wanted to shout. Spending another hundred thousand days without his lord’s touch? Without swearing properly to his service? For something he had not done?

It was _monstrous_.

The young dog, sensing his distress, licked at his palm encouragingly. Tyelkormo turned, burying his face in that soft fur. “Fine,” he said, muffled against the puppy, and finally straightened up, as if the dog had given him strength. “If that is what my lord wishes. At the next festival, I will be at your side, and I will enter your service until the end of the world.”

Next to him, the dog let out a low, eager _whuff!_

It gave him heart, and Tyelkormo squared his shoulders. “Exactly.” He turned to walk out of the clearing, with what of his dignity was still intact, and the dog tried to follow him. “No, you’re too small. Stay with your mother.”

The dog, as high as his own elbow already, gave him a puppy grin. _I come_ , his wagging tail seemed to say, and Tyelkormo looked up beseechingly at Lord Oromë. “Is he...”

“He is yours,” Oromë said, still looking troubled. Tyelkormo hated that. _Don’t look upset, don’t be upset, I’ll never betray you no matter what she says._ “And old enough, should he wish to leave the safety of his mother’s side already.”

The dog butted his head against Tyelkormo’s side. _I come_ , his tail wagged again, and despite the humiliation and anger, Tyelkormo found his mouth twitching. “Come on, then, dog,” he muttered, and set off at a run, knowing that if he looked back at Lord Oromë, he might throw himself upon his knees and start begging.


	5. Chapter 5

“You,” Tilion said firmly, “are going to get me exiled, too.”

Tyelkormo rolled his eyes. “It isn’t _that_ easy to get exiled. Trust me. We aren’t doing anything _wrong_. Just...frowned upon.”

Tilion scowled, and it seemed that silver light flared all around the thicket they’d set up in, with furs laid across the brittle thorns. “I think we’re going to get in trouble if we’re caught.”

“Well, Poldolúva won’t do it, and you’re mad for Arien, aren’t you?” Tyelkormo asked bluntly. “I just want to try it. To see.”

“To see what?”

“If...” Tyelkormo scowled, and folded his arms over his chest. It was tight; he would need a new tunic soon, his father’s tailors had clucked, if his arms kept growing larger. At least the tattoo still looked like it was supposed to, even as he filled out with hard lean muscle. “If I can bear the touch of anyone but him. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what? I’m not looking at you like anything.”

Tyelkormo threw a blow at his friend, who ducked easily. “Like you pity me.”

Tilion snorted. “I don’t. I just think you’re going to get me kicked out of the hunt.”

Impatient, Tyelkormo stripped off his tunic, tossing it on the furs, and followed with his breeches. “Do you find me fair, or not?” he demanded. “Pretend we are running with the hunt, feel your blood sing.”

“I don’t have blood the same way you do--“

“Yet I see you grow hard after a good chase,” Tyelkormo interrupted, and dropped to his hands and knees, tugging his braid loose. “Huan is keeping watch, we will not be seen. Who do we harm? What laws are broken?”

“Perhaps not laws, but customs...” Tilion trailed off, sounding suddenly distracted, as Tyelkormo slid a hand back, flagrantly baring himself open, teasing a finger into his already-slick hole. “Hrávellë...”

“If you make me beg, I’ll gut you,” Tyelkormo said bluntly. “I just want to see. If I hate it, you can leave.”

“What if _I_ hate it?” Despite the words, Tilion knelt behind him, and Tyelkormo sighed in relief that he would at least _know_ soon. Tilion’s hand stroked down his back, raising shivers and prickles under his skin. “What if I hate seeing you beneath me crying his name?”

Tyelkormo shot him a dirty look. “You prepared me for him on the night of the festival, don’t pretend you suddenly care so much for Eldarin customs, _Maia_.”

“That’s _different_ ,” Tilion muttered, but he tugged his laces open all the same, and his hand dipped lower, caressing and stroking, until he batted Tyelkormo’s fingers away to slide his own inside.

Tyelkormo’s body reacted instantly, and his back arched as he pushed back, head dropping. Feeling someone else’s fingers inside him again made him think of nothing but that night, and he pulled the furs back beneath him so he could grip and twist at the grass, heedless of the thorns snapping under his hands, hungry for the way his _hröa_ had sung that night. “Lord Oromë,” he murmured, closing his eyes as Tilion slid a third finger into him. He was ready, more than ready, had toyed with himself for nearly an hour that morning before stopping, frustrated, tears in his eyes at the realization that he would have to wait another Age before feeling someone touch him again.

It could not be borne.

The fingers withdrew suddenly, and Tyelkormo heard a sharp intake of breath, and the rustle of brush through the thicket. Huan let out a cheerful, friendly bark of welcome.

“Shit,” Tyelkormo muttered, and looked over his shoulder to see the very Vala he’d just named, towering over him, holding Tilion by the scruff of his tunic.

Tilion, dangling by the back of his neck, just looked resigned as Oromë threw him out of the thicket, shooting Tyelkormo a vaguely dirty look over his shoulder as he sailed through the air. There was no sound of impact; Tilion was a Maia, after all, and could probably turn into a bird and fly away if he wanted to, let alone land gracefully.

Tyelkormo opened his mouth, to defend himself or protest or offer justifications. If Oromë did not want him, what matter who he should choose to take? They had broken no laws, spoken no vows; his body was surely his own to give as he chose.

But he found, suddenly, confronted with Oromë’s silent wrath, that he did not wish to speak at all. Let Oromë punish him, for this insult or some other. As long as he could feel that hand upon his skin, he cared not for what form it took.

“You display yourself like one of my prize mares,” Oromë rumbled, and there was wrath there, hard and bright. “And you invoke my name, in my woods. Is this what my proud hunter has become?”

“Yes,” Tyelkormo shot back, twisting around to look up at Oromë, but the great hunger grabbed him by the neck as he had with Tilion, and forced him back onto his hands and knees.

“You must have known to speak my name here would bring me.”

The true answer was no, he hadn’t thought that far ahead, but Tyelkormo swallowed that. “Of course,” he lied, his hair spilling unbound over his shoulders, down to pool on the furs beneath him. “Perhaps I wished you to see me thus.”

“Bent over for another.”

Oromë _was_ jealous, Tyelkormo thought with a giddy rush of glee, and he widened his stance, shifting his knees farther apart. “All that I am is yours to claim. You have only to take it.”

“You think to mollify me?” Oromë snarled, and grabbed him by the hair, wrenching his head back. “For using my image thus in your mind, for playing wanton with my name on your lips?”

Tyelkormo twisted and writhed in his grip, feeling his own anger spark hot under his skin, turning to grab at Oromë’s hand. “I wouldn’t _have_ to,” he spat, “if you would give me what I desire! Does my form not please you?” He _knew_ himself most fair, could have had any _nís_ or _nér_ of the Noldor at his heels or writing him poetry the way they did for his eldest brother, had he the desire, but still, Oromë remained closed to him. “Two years hence I told you, I would find no pleasure unless it be at your touch!”

“And yet, with the promise of my service, still you sought another.”

“I am not so patient as a Vala!” Tyelkormo shouted, and dug his nails into Oromë’s shoulders, the closest he had ever come to being eye to eye with the great hunter.

“No,” Oromë growled, and grabbed him by the waist, yanking him off his feat to dangle helplessly in midair. “You are hardly so patient as a cat in heat.”

Tyelkormo hissed, and squirmed in the powerful hold, but Oromë would not be moved. “If you will not have me, I’ll have who I like! I wear your marks, I run at your side--make me wait to enter your service if you must, but unless you can bid my flesh not to rise every time I see you, have some blasted compassion and _fuck me_!”

Oromë moved so swiftly Tyelkormo didn’t even register the movement. Suddenly the ground simply rose to meet him, and all the wind was knocked out of him as he landed facedown. Then Oromë was hitching up his hips, and a feral thrill rushed through Tyelkormo as he arched his back, spreading his legs, opening his mouth to plead or curse or cry or snap--

But it didn’t matter, because Oromë was pressing against him, then _in_ him.

Tyelkormo let out a noise that could only be called a howl. Tears sprang to his eyes, and it was too much, _far_ too much, no matter what he had practiced, no matter how he had yearned for it. This was no sacred ritual, and he didn’t bother forcing himself to stay quiet now, thrusting back eagerly no matter the obscene stretch. He dropped one hand to his abdomen, and his cock gave a dripping twitch at the way he could _feel_ Oromë moving inside of him, feel the head of that massive cock pressing against his belly from the inside, claiming him the way he needed to be claimed.

The fullness of it, the way it made his insides ache and twist and melt, was enough to white out his mind. Tyelkormo heard himself muttering pathetic phrases--“Yes, please, right there, harder, so big, turn me inside out, my lord, my lord, fill me, take me, _break me_ ”--and did not try to stop.

He remembered the overwhelming size of Oromë around and inside him, and welcomed it back, gladly. What he had not had the first time was Oromë murmuring in his ear, his big hands sliding up and down Tyelkormo’s chest and belly and cock and thighs, his sharp sudden bite against Tyelkormo’s neck.

 _Like a stallion takes a mare_ , he thought deliriously.

“No,” Oromë rumbled, his voice so deep and powerful that it shook Tyelkormo to his bones, the sound soft against his ear. “Like a wolf takes a mate.”

Tyelkormo cried out, overwhelmed, and his cock spilled into Oromë’s hand, pulse after pulse, more than he could ever remember coming in his life. Oromë seemed to take that as a signal, and thrust in harder, with little courtesy or grace, bestial and hungry and utterly, completely welcomed, as Tyelkormo came undone in his arms.

When Tyelkormo awakened, he was splayed out gracelessly on his stomach, his head pillowed on Oromë’s chest, Oromë’s hand stroking his hair. He tensed experimentally, and felt fluid drip out of his sore hole down his thigh, making him bite his lip. “Mm,” he said, little more than a grunt to let Oromë know he was awake. “I’m going to make a mess on the furs.”

“Furs are not in short supply for a worthy hunter,” Oromë responded, more placid and relaxed than Tyelkormo had ever heard him.

“You must tell me what to do, then,” Tyelkormo said, propping his chin on Oromë’s chest, looking up at him. “So that I may be always worthy of dirtying your furs.”

Oromë’s thumb stroked over his cheek, and Tyelkormo leaned into that touch, eyes lidding. “You have not often been told that you are enough, exactly as you are, have you?”

The question made Tyelkormo blink. It did not, for a long moment, make any sense.

“Why would anyone bother saying such a thing?” he asked, brow furrowing. “It is not for the approval of others I do what I do.” That was not entirely true, of course. His father’s curses against the Valar grew in volume and blackness every day, and the forges in Formenos were always blazing hot. In the woods, all was as it should be. It was only that he was often forced to be elsewhere, often stuffed into uncomfortable clothing and shoes that pinched and had his hair yanked and tamed and braided in a most ridiculous fashion. It was only that his father praised his sons often, but never for something that felt true to Tyelkormo, never his stealth or grace or power moving through the woods, always for essays or jewelcraft or oratory or skill at arms or linguistics. But if Tyelkormo wanted praise, he would practice his bow and spear and sword where his father could see, and tell him he was fierce and passionate.

If that was what his father wanted of him, that was what he could be, around his father. It was harder for several of his brothers, so he had little to complain about. He knew his place, and it was not in the forge or the palace or the great banquet halls.

“You are as I would have you,” Oromë said, and Tyelkormo could feel the rumble of the words through his chest. “And no different.”

Tyelkormo snorted. “I could not be other than I am, so why should I think upon it? The world is full of people who can do all of the tedious things that need to be doing. My brothers can be what Valinor needs of bards and leaders and crafters. I have need of the woods.”

“The woods have need of a warden such as you.” Oromë’s voice was as gentle as Tyelkormo had ever heard it, and the sound made him want to purr. “I have need of such a one in my train.”

“Then look you forward to the next festival, or tell your wife to mind her flower-maids and leave you the wolves,” Tyelkormo said shortly. “I will be the fiercest rider in your train, and when she allows, your most devoted subject. Why did you wed?”

Oromë regarded him, but did not grow angry. “It seemed wise.”

Tyelkormo scowled. “Do you always do what is wise?”

“No. If I did, I would not be here with you.”

“You are mocking me,” Tyelkormo informed him, and slid down, and determinedly fulfilled another fantasy he’d had for long years, and put his hand on Oromë’s soft cock. It was still larger than his own, and he eyed it critically, then when Oromë did not stop him, took the head into his mouth.

It stretched his lips as far as they could go, and the musk and scent of Oromë this close made his eyes flutter, even as his mouth watered. He licked, trying to remember what Poldolúva had told him he should do, if he ever found himself in a situation like this. He wriggled his tongue, and felt Oromë’s cock start to harden on his tongue, slowly rising to fill his mouth.

Oromë’s hand came down, threading in his pale hair, brushing baubles and trinkets out of it, letting them fall onto the furs. “I’ll braid your hair again before I let you leave,” he murmured.

That made Tyelkormo suck in a laugh, pulling off briefly to grin, and lick his lips. “Let me leave? You’ll have to send me away.”

“Then before I send you away.”

Tyelkormo opened his mouth to protest, but Oromë took advantage of that position, and shoved his cock back between Tyelkormo’s lips.

For long, indulgent minutes, he laved at the cock in his mouth, letting it grow thicker and harder on his tongue. Oromë let him do as he liked, stroking and petting his hair like a favored dog. Tyelkormo welcomed the touch, would not have minded in the slightest to be a favored dog of such a one, though he doubted any denizen of Oromë’s kennels had such an honor.

He pulled off often, to breathe and to change position, surreptitiously rubbing at his jaw. He hadn’t practiced this sort of thing like he had the other, trusting to Poldolúva’s assurance that it was difficult to be so bad at this that one’s partner did not enjoy it. Now, confronted with what felt like far more than his mouth was equipped to handle, he regretted the omission.

After what felt like an age of sloppy, determined sucks and licks that didn’t seem to be driving Oromë any closer to the edge, Tyelkormo sat back with a huff, glaring at the stiff cock in front of him. “This is too difficult,” he accused, and crawled up, ignoring the stinging, lingering soreness in his lower body as he straddled the Vala. “Tell me you’d prefer to be inside me instead.”

“You were so enthusiastic,” Oromë told him, with just the tiniest hint of a smile. “Should I have interrupted?”

Tyelkormo scowled, but not for long, because Oromë’s hands came up to grab his hips. “Too much patience is required,” he informed Oromë, and let himself be guided down, hissing when the thick shaft breached his hole for the second time in an hour. He groaned, feeling the sound forced out of him by Oromë’s cock, as if there were no space left inside him for both Oromë and any air, as if his organs had to rearrange themselves to make room for the slick, hard invasion.

Tyelkormo sank down until he was resting, more or less, on Oromë’s powerfully muscled thighs, and panted for breath. He shifted experimentally, feeling a level of control he so far had not felt during their previous couplings, and felt Oromë’s cock drag over something within him that made him--

“Was that a whine?” Oromë rumbled, sounding amused. “What a pretty sound, Hrávellë.”

Heat sprang into Tyelkormo’s cheeks, and he looked pointedly down at the Vala’s massive chest instead of at his face. Then, very determinedly, he set about shifting his hips, looking for that same angle again. When he found it, his mouth dropped open, and his cock started to drip freely. He heard himself making eager, unrestrained, wild little sounds, grinding against that spot over and over again, feeling as if he was on the verge of being _changed_ forever by the feeling.

“Is this how you serve your lord? Chasing only your own pleasure?”

Tyelkormo bared his teeth at the very idea of moving in another way, when he could keep squirming down, rocking the fat head of that cock against the spot that made his vision white out along the edges. “I’m not your servitor yet, _my lord_ ,” he gasped, and to his surprise, felt his cock dripping in a slow, steady stream, spilling over himself and Oromë both.

He kept moving, feeling his body flushed and over-sensitive, reaching up to toy with his own nipples in a way that had felt most pleasing when he’d tried pleasuring himself at home. It felt far better now, sending ripples of heat and desire through his body, making him clench down, making his mouth hang open as he panted for air.

He _was_ whining now, rocking his hips frantically, seeing spots burst behind his eyes. It was as if there were an itch he’d never known was deep inside him, and it was _finally_ being scratched, as if all the pleasure he’d ever felt in his life had been distilled into one too-sensitive place that he simply could not stop abusing.

Then Oromë’s hands were on his hips, and he was being lifted, suddenly weightless. Oromë brought him down again, and suddenly the hard, punishing rhythm he set hit at something hungry and primal within Tyelkormo, something that made him feel like an entirely different creature. He groaned and snarled and grabbed, and none of it made any difference to the way Oromë moved his body, slamming him down over and over again until he was yelping, his head thrown back, uncaring of who might hear.

It was only a few heartbeats later that he felt Oromë spill within him, dragging him down so hard Tyelkormo could only moan, overstimulated and overwhelmed as he was filled past what he thought was possible to endure. Oromë’s hands were on him until the end, stroking and gentling him as if he were a skittish colt, ready to kick or flee or buck at a moment’s notice, instead of a proud Noldorin prince who felt vaguely like vomiting from pleasure.

Tyelkormo could not have said how much later Oromë finally lifted him off his softening cock, bearing him back down to the furs. His breath hitched when Oromë did not simply pet him, but tugged one of his legs up, spreading them wide and seating himself fully again in Tyelkormo’s pliant, trembling body. The great hunter seemed to be in little hurry, and simply left himself there, making Tyelkormo writhe and bite his lip, tears stinging his eyes at the stretch and fullness of the position.

“Do you still want to serve?” Oromë’s voice was low, but no less dangerous for all its softness. “Even if I would do this to you at any time? While you were running, hunting, enjoying yourself, eating--you could be called to serve me. I am not patient.”

Tyelkormo swallowed a breathy little gasp, and forced himself to look up, meeting the Vala’s eyes. “I care not,” he said, stubborn. “I am of far more use than as a prick-warmer, and my lord will see it for himself.”

Oromë rumbled. “And if I do not? If this is the service I require most stringently?”

Tyelkormo swallowed too the protestation that he was too tired, too full, too sore. “Then my lord will not find me wanting.”

A low growl sounded from the thicket near them. Almost unconsciously, Tyelkormo extended his hand upwards, and felt Huan lick his palm gently, assuring himself that his master was all right. Some strength flowed back into his limbs at that, and he gritted his teeth, squeezing down around Oromë’s cock, determined to be an active participant at all times, even if his body was beyond sated and worn out.

Oromë held him down for another minute, as if simply to prove that he could. Then, as if on command, his cock softened, and he pulled out, leaving Tyelkormo feeling empty and exhausted, but relieved, and strangely proud of himself.

Some time later, Tyelkormo set out for the house at Formenos, Huan at his side. With each step, he felt the small jingle of trinkets Oromë had braided back into his hair, far more beautifully and securely than he could have done himself.

Better than the braiding by far was his knowledge, that all he need do to feel his lord’s touch was to call for him in the woods, and be ready for him to arrive. Tilion, he thought, would be gratified to hear that his services were no longer required, and he could go back to hiding in trees whenever the lady Arien strolled past, collecting flowers.


	6. Chapter 6

Tyelkormo would have stayed, if any of them had stayed.

Maitimo, he thought, might have gone against their father, properly stood up to him, for if anyone could, it was Maitimo. Maitimo was as proud and strong as Fëanáro, was taller and more powerful in arms, was a leader and a commander in his own right, and had great love of some of his kinsmen. Maitimo, possibly, would stand against him, and then Tyelkormo could.

But Maitimo swore, and did not falter.

Macalaurë, then, _might_ not wish to venture into battle. He was ever concerned with the state of his fingers, and gentler than some of his brothers.

But Macalaurë swore, with no hesitation at all, and his voice was mighty.

Curufinwë’s sword shone, and Tyelkormo could do nothing less, and he heard himself speak the words, even if--

Even if perhaps it would have been good if Morifinwë had thought better of it, the shrewdest of them.

Or if the Ambarussa had hung back with their mother, and they might need a guardian.

But they swore.

And he swore.

And he did not think of oaths that he would never be allowed to take, now, or how the Lady Vana had been right about him, or how they were striking out for a new land, and he would never hear the name _Hrávellë_ again _,_ except in his dreams.

~

“Come again, brother?”

Ulmo’s great brows raised, though no water cascaded from them, as he was not truly wearing a _fana_ , as Oromë himself was wont to do.

Oromë swung off of Nahar, and strolled from the beach into the rocky surf, feeling the waves buffeting him, and ignoring them. “Aye,” he said, for it was no use denying what he had come for. “Have you aught to speak?”

“Does your lady wife know you have come to my shores?”

Wrath began to kindle in Oromë’s chest. The waves reacted, choppy and swift. “She is of the mind that Valinor must be closed to the rebels, forever and anon.”

“And you did not stand with me, and speak against her.”

Oromë inclined his head. “I think she is not wrong.”

“But your heart misgives you. You sorrow for what they have wrought, as I do.”

They were close, as only brothers could be. Oromë closed his eyes, and nodded. “Vana is not wrong. Manwë and Varda are not wrong. But you are perhaps right, in my heart. They have fled, and rebelled, and made war where they should not, but they are young, and know little of the marring of the world. Shall they be blamed for the corruption of Melkor, who we should have never unchained?”

Had Ulmo a _fana_ , he might have offered a hand to clasp. As he was, the sea roiled, and he nodded, once, fiercely. “There are still those amongst them that I love.”

“And I.” Oromë’s gaze shifted, far across Ulmo’s sea.

“You speak with me now, and our hearts are aligned,” Ulmo said, gratified. “We are two of the Shadow’s mightiest foes. I will show you what your eyes strain to find.”

Oromë inclined his head again, gravely.

And he Saw.

He saw many of those who had ridden in his train lost on the ice, or smote down by war.

He saw Tyelkormo victorious, leading a fearsome host against the Enemy, with Huan at his side and the lust and hunger of battle in his heart.

He saw defeats, and rage that he well understood, and the odd, faltering hope in the faces of the Noldor as they gazed upon the Moon and the Sun for the first time.

He saw Tyelkormo lost, faced with choices he did not understand, erring in the choosing at every turn and cursing himself, damning himself further in the cursing.

He saw battles, and battles, and the spray of blood, of waves after waves of Melkor’s foul creatures breaking themselves on the Noldor’s blades, and of the Noldor falling in ruin, coming by tortured paths to Mandos’ Halls.

He Saw, and knew he was seeing the end of Beleriand soon, the end of all he loved there, and turned his eyes away, unable to watch the final descent.

“It is not what you wished,” Ulmo said gently. “Nor I. I...I help, when I may.”

Oromë was silent. Waves crashed around them. He had not looked away soon enough.

Of all the Noldor in Middle-Earth, Tyelkormo was the one he least wished to die in someone else’s woods, in pursuit of something he did not even want, out of loyalty to one long dead.

“Tell me, in friendship and in brotherhood, when that one’s _fëa_ leaves his _hröa_ ,” he said at last, and when Ulmo nodded, he turned, and left the sea for the comforting embrace of the woods.

He was not Ulmo. He sent no visions nor promises. He had no great Eagles to send, like Manwë.

But he could tend the woods, and wait.

~

When things went wrong in Middle-Earth, Celegorm took to the woods.

He ran with Huan. He was not the fastest of his brothers in a footrace, but a footrace through _the woods_ , now, there he would never be beaten. He dashed like a deer, Huan at his tail, great paws churning the ground with every stride. Sometimes he took down prey, and ate it, or gave it to Huan, or brought it back to his people. More often, he simply ran, and shouted for Lord Oromë until his voice was hoarse.

He took to the woods when Maitimo was taken. He ran, and did not cry, because he was no child to weep for his kind eldest brother being ripped away from him. He raged, because that was what the sons of Fëanáro had become. When Oromë raged, the ground quaked beneath Nahar’s golden-shod hooves. When Celegorm did so, he just felt young, and stupid, that he could ever have hoped to be as great as his father, as if a few small battles were enough to teach him the true nature of war. Maitimo was gone, turned or killed, and what was in front of them now was terrifying.

Maitimo came back to them, though, as his father had not come back, and Pityo had not come back. He came back _less_ , and he came back _shadowed_ , and he came back _broken_ for a time. Sometimes he raged, too, and did not know them, and made pitiful noises in his sleep. At those times, he could stand the sight of none of them but Findekáno, who Celegorm supposed could penetrate that cloud of pain by virtue of being the one who had plucked him from the Thangorodrim. The two of them were often together afterwards, taking counsel late into the night, their lanterns burning long after all others were extinguished. Guilt nagged at Celegorm--he should have been the one to bring Maitimo back, wasn’t he fierce? Wasn’t he brave?--so he took to the woods once more, and brought back fine fat game for his brother and cousin, and wished he were different.

Celegorm took to the woods when Aredhel was taken, too.

Once, Tyelkormo had invited Irissë to the Hunt with him. He had brought Curufinwë as well, and they had ridden out laughing, and ridden back hungry and content, feeling wild under the skin. She should always have been wild, Celegorm thought.

He heard of her capture, his own fault, why had he stayed away for so long, why had he tarried for so many months in Thargelion? Why had he invited her to ride with him in the Hunt at all in the first place? His favorite, dear cousin, he had given her the hunger that wracked him even now, and there was no cure for it in Middle-Earth. He was hungry always, and had no way to slake it.

Sometimes the hunger twisted inside of him, and he forgot what it was for.

It was for prey, for the chase. But he was a lord and a warrior now, and could not always be running through the woods. Sometimes it twisted, and it felt nearly as good to storm an enemy encampment as it did to run down a bear.

It twisted again, bound up with his oath, and perhaps the Silmarils were his prey after all.

It twisted, and he found himself wondering what Aredhel would look like beneath him, her dark hair splayed out on the leaves. Perhaps Lord Oromë would come to him then, if he made another offering.

It twisted, and he heard himself called “Celegorm the Fair” no more, but “Celegorm the Crafty,” and finally, “Celegorm the Cruel.”

(Was he? It was not cruel to bring down a deer, was it? Was it cruel to bring down a city? The inhabitants were not him and his brothers, not _really_ Noldor at all, so what could they matter? If they were not predators, they were prey, and Celegorm knew what to do with prey.)

It twisted, and Aredhel was killed, and he thought for the first time since he learned how to track that he might be lost.

~

He always heard, when those that had ridden in his train called for him, in faraway Middle-Earth where he had once ridden freely. He heard, and he itched to ride, to go to them, to bring them glory and take them home afterwards, to ride openly against the Shadow.

He heard when they all whispered his name, at the Battle of Sudden Flame. But it was not him they saw, only a King of Eldar, who fell, more bravely than Oromë could ever fall, for he was eternal.

“You could come with me,” Ulmo suggested, more than once. “Manwë does not hinder me. I think in his heart he rues letting them go.”

“Better he should rue ever bringing them to Aman,” Oromë returned gravely. “They should have been wild and free, and we their wardens keeping the Enemy from tainting what they would become.”

“The ones that still love you would yet be lost, to weariness and strife and their own deeds.”

“You have shown many how to build secret, safe places.” Oromë stared across the sea, and did not speak more.

Days later, still upon the shore, he asked finally, “You see far, brother. Will we go? Will we ride out, as we should have long ago, and make our war? Shall our trumpets sound against the Thangorodrim, and shall we not force Melkor to the justice he should still face?”

“We must,” Ulmo said, and low currents swept swiftly in the depths of his seas. “It cannot be otherwise.”

“Yet Manwë waits.”

“They cast off our favor and aid, or so our brother and sisters say, and must ask for it again; else we are but parents to reluctant children, and not friends and guardians.”

Oromë exchanged a look with his brother, who slowly raised one eyebrow. “As you say,” he said, answering what Oromë had not spoken aloud. “But we _will_ go.”

~

As long as Huan was at his side, he could be Found again.

Huan was a constant companion of his long, twisted years, of his descent. Celegorm felt himself close to breaking time after time, but Huan was at his side, Huan who knew him as he _should_ have been, as he had been back when he was Tyelkormo the Fair, known as one of Oromë’s hunters and nothing false. So perhaps Huan could see what he still might be, if they fulfilled their Oath at last, and were able to exist without it twisting everything.

The fires came, and he lost his lands, all that he governed and had made fast and strong against the Enemy. But Curufin was at his side, and Huan was at his side, so perhaps it was a sign, that he had allowed the Oath to slumber too long, and not a sign that he never should have thought himself capable of being a lord of peacetime. He made for a hidden city, and cared not whether they thought him fair or foul, so long as he might still, might yet, be something other than _this_.

_(“You are as I would have you, and no different.”)_

Those words haunted him most of all. It was long since anyone had told him he was enough, just as he was, and longer still since he had believed it.

The hunger twisted within him, and he saw another elven maid with dark hair. and wondered if she, too, might be the final means to his end.

She was not Aredhel. He had to tell himself that, for she too looked at home in the woods, and might be beautiful with her hair splayed out on the leaves beneath him. Perhaps he would not offer her as prey to Lord Oromë, but take that for himself. Was he not the fiercest hunter in Middle-Earth?

Surely that was his right.

If he was no longer proud and fair Tyelkormo, but now only Celegorm the Cruel, and Huan was still at his side, perhaps he should simply take what was his right. Did he not run down deer, who would flee before him? In the long, mad silence of Beleriand, where Valaróma never sounded, he had hunted many creatures, and in the hunting, turned them into prey. Huan was with him, and Curufin was with him, so he must still be himself. He could still speak fair, even if they no longer called him such, and she followed him, so he must not be wholly something else yet.

His footsteps were always sure, always silent, always those of a hunter.

Until he stumbled.

Things that were fair and kind were not for him to touch. He had once hunted live and deadly prey, heard the horn of his master and hastened to the call, was renown for his prowess in driving back the twisted creatures of Morgoth from the blessed lands.

Now he hunted jewels, cold and hard and unforgiving with no heartbeat, and his feet stumbled upon every twig.

Huan saw, and left his side.

He was lost.

~

“Why do you come, brother?”

Wrath kindled in Oromë’s breast, but not at Námo. Not precisely, specifically at him. “I wish to know if the one I have spoken of has passed to your halls yet.”

“Not yet. As Ulmo told you.”

“But--“ Oromë’s brows drew together, and his hand clenched upon his spear. _He has not spoken my name in the woods for many years of the sun_ , he did not say, and that, somehow, was more troubling still.

~

Celegorm often drank strong wine until he could not move, after Aredhel. After Huan, it didn’t help any longer.

Time passed swiftly, dangerously, in Beleriand. Hours were fleeting things. Days bled into each other, punctuated by sudden cold dark nights. At the first dawn, he had looked up in wonder at the bright lights in the sky. _You fool_ , he had thought, heartsick with longing, knowing Tilion even in this form. _Now you’ll never touch her._

The darkness flew by him, over and over. His safe places were gone. The woods he’d run through were full of orcs, and he made mistakes, over and over. Huan was not there to guard him, unsleeping and ever-vigilant, letting him know that there was always a being that thought him worthy of love, even now. Huan had left him, and turned on him, and died because of him.

Celegorm heard about Huan’s death. He was not there, because he had been stupid and cruel, and Huan had left him for it.

He drank, and it did not help, because he was loathsome, and knew himself to no longer be fair, but only cold and hard.

Everything broke, in the wake of the Fifth Battle, but Celegorm was already broken, already houseless, already a refugee from the creatures of Morgoth and the safe bright cities of the Noldor. He was injured, but that mattered little.

Russandol faded. His powerful, passionate, brightly-burning older brother, who had always kept them safe, was lost to the shadows of his own mind at last. He was difficult to reach with words, and Celegorm had never been one for fair speech in any case.

(Hadn’t Oromë told him as much?)

(“ _Elegant words do not suit your fair form.”_ )

Fell deeds suited his fair form even less, he thought, but he could not stop doing them. He tried to run through the woods. They were full of orcs, tainted and foul, and Celegorm retched when he saw all the places that were once good and green and fecund turned to tar and filth and blood. He slaughtered orcs, determined to drive them from his forests, but in the slaughtering, splashed toxic black blood into the soil himself, and the orcs kept coming.

He surrounded himself with only those that could keep up. Kinder men and elves he cast aside. Beleriand was not a world for softness.

Doriath meant nothing to him. There was a jewel there, that was all.

Perhaps it could all be over.

The Lord of Doriath was hardly older than a babe in arms. He had proud words, as if he had inherited the courage and strength of his father along with the beauty of his mother. But he moved as an untrained child, when he decided to move to violence. Was Dior an imbecile, to think he could stand against a warrior of millennia, to think he could meet swords with the elf who had routed Morgoth’s forces a hundred times or more?

_I was teaching the Enemy to fear me when the moon was still drunk, you fool._

Dior came for him, the idiot, directly into Huan’s guard. How many times had they savaged an unwary enemy thus?

He grinned, as Huan’s jaws clamped down on Dior’s arm.

The cold metal bit into his flesh. Curufin was screaming.

Oh. That was right.

Huan was dead.

And so was he.

 _Finally_.

~

“Now.”

Oromë had asked, to be told when Tyelkormo’s _fëa_ finally fled his _hröa_.

Hearing it, in Ulmo’s sonorous voice, still felt like an injury.

He turned, making for the halls, but Ulmo paused him with a thought. “There is little time. We will go, soon, to make our war.”

Oromë nodded. “I will be in the van, with Tulkas and Eönwë. But this, I must do first.”

Námo let him pass with no challenge. Oromë had only come to the Halls once before, to collect another of his beloved wandering souls that had finally returned to him from across the distant sea. Nienna gave him a level look, and Oromë knew her to be in close counsel with Vana, and wary of his wrath these past five hundred years of the sun.

“Where is he?” he asked, and Námo inclined his head.

“You may not recognize the one you seek.”

“I will see him.”

Námo led him. The room prepared was kept filled with healing silver light, but the figure within was turned away, shivering violently, curled up on his side, arm thrown over his face as if to hide. There was no hiding, of course. He was only _fëa_ , and the healing would continue whether he willed it or no, unless he consigned himself to the Void.

“How long?” Oromë asked quietly.

“Long.” Námo stood next to him, their voices reaching no farther than they wished, not disturbing the pitiful spirit in the first stages of rebuilding. “Much has been twisted that was once good in him. It will take time. The corruption will need to be stripped from him. This will not be an easy process, nor a quick one.”

Oromë started forward, but Námo put a hand up. “He will not know you.”

“Nevertheless. He will know someone is here.”

He knelt, and some of the tremors wracking the shuddering _fëa_ slowed. Oromë was silent, and did not reach out, save for the smallest brush of his own mind. _I am here._

A strange, frightened, sick sound came from the quaking spirit, and it turned away, curling in on itself, like some cave-dwelling creature seeing the light in sensitive eyes for the first time in centuries.

Oromë knelt, and watched the fear, the trauma, the wretched hatred be spun off of the spirit like tendrils of wool, coaxed into the thread that would become the tapestries adoring the walls. The _fëar_ could not keep them, if there was to be healing, but neither could they be forgotten, if there was to be penance.

He remained in the Halls, silently watching, until he felt the summons of Manwë, and rose. He was more than ready to make war, full of wrath with nowhere to vent it. “Heal,” he instructed, the first he had spoken in years. “That is a command.”

The spirit twitched. Much of the corruption had been drawn off of him already. Much remained.

Oromë rose, and turned.

“Is that...an order from...my lord?”

Tyelkormo’s voice was weak. It was nervous. It was shaky.

But it was him.


	7. Chapter 7

Drums sounded through the forest.

Tyelkormo’s legs felt light and fast, and he raised up on his toes, bouncing with nerves. His skin felt tight, sweat beading at the back of his neck. The moon shone over the Woods of Yavanna, a bright crescent in Tilion’s arms as he streaked through the sky.

A large hand settled on the back of his neck--possessive, warm, intent. “You are the swiftest through the woods,” Oromë murmured, and Tyelkormo shot up a swift, fierce grin at him.

“I will win.”

“I will be waiting.”

“And I will pledge myself to you.”

Oromë turned to go. He would wear the mask, and soon, Tyelkormo would be Found in truth.

He grabbed at Oromë’s arm, and yanked him down for a kiss, feeling his blood pound through his veins. “Come find me.”

“I will,” Oromë promised, and lay a hand on his hair, stroking through the pale strands.

“I will be your offering.”

“I’ve already accepted, Hrávellë.” Oromë smiled, and brushed the pad of one thumb over Tyelkormo’s lower lip. “A dozen hunts hence.”

Tyelkormo grinned. He lay a hand on the head of his hound, a beast nearly as massive as his father, Huan. Huan had been reborn, but had not come back to him. Some things were gone forever.

But life went on, in the woods. New life was born. Some things had to die, for others to come about. Huan had parted from him forever, but Yondo was strong and true, and Tyelkormo would not take his loyalty for granted.

Oromë kissed him again, his teeth nipping at Tyelkormo’s bottom lip. “Run fiercely.”

“I must.” Tyelkormo’s eyes were bright. “I am always hungry, after all.”

“And yet,” Oromë murmured, turning away, “tonight your belly will be filled.”

“If I am fast enough.”

“You will be.”

“I must. I would not share my lord’s favor.”

The bear moved. Oromë was gone.

Tyelkormo ran, to the sound of drums.


End file.
